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I disagree I think Andi did good here. I dont think that the fate of the Strategoi would deter other from surrendering, after all their own actions puts them in a special catagory of traitors: A man who rebels but is then defeated and gives the emperor his personal allegiance might be trusted (somewhat), but these men professed loyalty to Andi and THEN betrayd him by remaining on the sidelines.
By the standards of the time Andronikos isnt even being especially bloodthirsty, no drawing and quartering here. He is publicly showning an almost saint like amount of mercy by not having the lot of them tortured to death right there. And even if the "state" of the Hagia Maria becomes public knowledge, well... as Machiavelli says:
"Men ought either to be indulged or utterly destroyed, for if you merely offend them they take vengeance, but if you injure them greatly they are unable to retaliate, so that the injury done to a man ought to be such that vengeance cannot be feared. "
and noone of the time would lift an eyebrow at that.

I still think capable strategoi are better off put to use. First of all, they where following their commanders orders and some disagreed with Simon Angelos. Secondly, they would have to fight to redeem themselves, with Angelos jr. probably taking some members of their family in 'protective custody'. Men are usually very grateful to be allowed to live after expecting to die. Many of history's greatest leaders and generals have employed their former opponents in their armies, usually with succes.
 
Well, that is truly evil.

Meanwhile, anything happened on the other fronts?
Danes, Hungarians, Nubians, Malians, Franks, Germans, Mongols, Arabs or someone trying to abuse the current situation?
 
The update itself is outlined, but not started. I have a full week of work next week, so chances are it won’t be finished until next Thursday or Friday. However, I had some time yesterday, so I put together a small interim about the most powerful branch of the Roman state—the army, and more importantly, some of the great generals that have built the Komnenid Empire. It follows after the replies.


armoristan - Not yet, but shortly! The last update wasn't nearly as bad of a cliffhanger as the previous one though...

Enewald - Other fronts we'll get to a little next update. The Danes, we can say for certainty, are out of it. They lost many of their mounts at Azov, it'll take them years to recover from that...

TC Pilot - Well, there's a certain Mongol who has grand plans that involve Andronikos...

FlyingDutchie - Valid points all. However there are some differences--let's take the Mongols for example. Often when they integrated a treacherous unit they would promptly split its men up amongst their own, if only to prevent organized efforts at treachery again. Andronikos' army was beaten up--there wouldn't be organized units to split the Anatolikon into for days, and he needed the men immediately. Putting on impartial judge hat, that was perhaps the biggest mistake he made--moving hastily to integrate the army wholesale, not splitting it apart amongst his own troops...

Kirsch27 - *Gives Kirsch a cookie*

asd21593 - I doubt they do either, but it's being written in English, so the jokes are in English. I'd write some Greek ones, but my Greek in here is faked, and I don't know any Greek puns.....:(

RGB - But there's no real Agrippa to sleep with his sister... and most importantly, there's no Atia! :)

Siind - Perhaps the best defense for getting rid of at least Angelos. It's like marrying someone who cheated on their previous spouse with you. You're playing with fire! The other strategoi, however, maybe there's a point to having them judged on a case by case basis. Andie was in a hurry, however, and wanted to make a point. The move also opens up a slew of command rank positions, which could be useful for bumping up people like de Silva, or as bribes down the line...

Panjer - That or his reputation will be. ;)

Hannibal X - Gabriel got off lighter than Andronikos in the fight--will he fall for Andie's bait or be the bigger man and do an un-Gabriel thing...retreat? Or will he pull something out of his strategic bag of tricks to turn the tables?

Laur - It might be a sign of Andronikos' naivete if he thinks that's Gabriel's plan... or maybe Gabriel would do something that foolish. I believe someone here long ago also dubbed him "Gabriel the Stubborn." :rofl:

Vesimir – Considering Andronikos has the larger army, they’re on territory unfriendly to Gabriel, he’d be an idiot if he consented. :rofl: Stranger things have happened—the great Alp Arslan of the Seljuks IRL died that way if I remember right (had won a city, but accepted a duel and died from his wounds)…

4th Dimension – Seriously wounded and not happy about it!

Frozenwall – That’s saved for people who won’t possibly get public sympathy. Like Segeo. :)

Zzzzz… – Considering Arghun has some long term plans for taking on Persia, I’m betting we’ll be seeing more of the Mongols next chapter!


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Quite a few of them made a bid for the throne, or so it seems. A very political office :p
 
Nice review of the "number two"-men.

The later updates inspired me to re-read some of the earlier chapters, more specifically the reign of my favourite gardener...

Andronikos has a lot of work to do if he is to meet the standards of his ancestors...
 
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“Il ne faut pas vendre la peau de l'ours avant de l'avoir tué.”
-“Don’t sell the bearskin before you’ve killed the bear.” – French proverb



January 18th, 1264



Gaston Capet sighed, settling his damsk tunic with his long, bony fingers. Servants had already combed through his thinning brown hair, and his beard had been trimmed to perfection. Gaston normally wasn’t a fussy man—he scarcely had time to be so—but today was an exceptional day. It was not every day that the Archbishop of Bourbon entertained the Secretarius Intimus of the Papal Curia.

The man sitting before him with a bemused smile looked almost grandfatherly—Cardinal Dietrich von Falkenburg’s blue eyes twinkled warmth and his gray hair promised gentleness, but Gaston Capet knew it was all a sham, a cover. Von Falkenburg was nothing less than the eyes and ears of the Holy Father—and the man in charge of planning, and arranging, anything the Holy Father needed done to cajol and persuade the princes of Europe to follow the Will of God.

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Gaston smiled uneasily, snapped his fingers, and quickly servants placed wine and fruit between them. With another wave of his hand, they were gone as quickly as they had come.

“Your servants look more well fed than you, Your Grace,” von Falkenburg chuckled as he picked up a grape and began to nibble.

“Well paid and well fed servants are loyal servants,” Gaston replied, not eating at all. For a moment, he let the older man eat in peace, before anxiety got in the way of his manners. “It is a journey from Trier to Paris, Your Eminence. May I ask why the urgent visit to my brother’s capital?”

Von Falkenburg had been in the middle of biting down on a cherry as Gaston spoke. The Cardinal leisurely finished his bite of fruit, before replying.

“Always to the point, Gaston,” von Falkenburg quipped. “The reports on you were quite accurate in that regard.”

“Reports?”

“My visit concerns your brother, and his kingdom, Gaston,” the Secretarius ignored the Archbishop’s question. “You are an advisor at your brother’s court, are you not? His Chancilier?

“Indeed,” Gaston nodded.

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Hugues II Capet had been woefully unready to take the throne on their father’s death in 1256. The eldest legitimate son of King Hugues I had been only 17, and more interested in the hunting, drinking, and siring his own brood of bastards than the crown. While back then he already looked the part of a King—tall, handsome with a thin scruff that promised to become a manly beard—Hugues II clearly didn’t have the patience for any aspect of it, save the art of hunting men on the battlefield.

So he’d turned to his older brother, Gaston, who would have made an excellent King, save he’d “fallen on the wrong side of the blanket.” Gaston’s mother was unfortunately not the wife of Hugues I, so in his youth Gaston Capet had found himself shuffled to the Notre Dame Cathedral for a life in the clergy. Not that Gaston didn’t have a chance to enjoy many things of the world—he had a mistress, and a young child of his own, even while he served as Bishop of Rouen—but apart from the clergy, the only life for the bastard son of a noble, even a king, in a country overflowing with nobility as France, was that of a hired sword.

So the church it was.

His high birth meant that Mother Church had just raised him to the Archbishopric of Bourbon only months before his father’s death interrupted any plans for further promotion. Instead of a promised Cardinal’s hat in the long term, Gaston found himself made Chancelier du France, in charge of all foreign and domestic affairs. So long as Hugues II got to hunt, play, and on occasion make war (a sport he played badly, for all his liking of it), Gaston was left in total control of the country—the real ruler, one might say….

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“You have the ear of your brother,” von Falkenburg smiled. Gaston thought it looked like a hyena. “That is what His Holiness desires from you.”

“Ah,” Gaston smiled politely at the Cardinal’s… tactful…description of the arrangement. “What does His Holiness desire? The French crown would be happy to assist the Church in whatever…”

“His Holiness feels that the true seat of the One True Catholic Church should be in Rome, not Trier,” Cardinal von Falkenburg folded his hands. “This would obviously mean war with the Greeks, but King Dietmar…”

Gaston Capet grumbled at the mentioning of Dietmar’s name. Dietmar Grimaldi was a usurper, nothing more, nothing less. The man’s claim to the throne of Burgundy had been tenuous at best, while his brother Hugues Capet’s claim was solid—his mother was the sister of the late King, and Hugues was his nephew. By Salic law, the throne should have been his—and thus, the rule of Burgundy and its rich lands and influence on the Papacy should have been Gaston’s. If Hugues had ever gained the Burgundian throne, Gaston knew a Cardinal’s hat and a probable rise to the Throne of St. Peter itself was in his future.

Unfortunately for both of them, Hugues’ appetite for war precluded any ability at command. Few doubted the King’s ability in a tournament, or even personal combat, but commanding an army of squabbling barons required more than the ability to swing a mace. Grimaldi, unfortunately, knew all the nooks and crevices of wielding an army—and he had connections that rivaled the sheer power of the Capets…

…he could draw on the Greeks to the south.

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The Grimaldis had not risen to the prominence of some families in the Roman behemoth to the south, but they had gained some notoriety. One of their scions was a high ranking commander in the Roman army during the days of Thomas II, another had gained a princely title in northern Italy. Others had connections to the Italian and Greek merchant families who were growing obscenely rich from Mediterranean trade. Dietmar had access to coin that rivaled that of the King, and just as importantly, Greek mercenaries, which the young Hugues had found out at Bouvines two years before were far more disciplined than his own great barons.

Gaston bit his lip, and glared the Cardinal. Did the Pope really think he could ask the Capets to take up arms against the Greeks yet again? Even after the debacle that befell Gaston’s grandfather? Especially with Dietmar sitting on their border? Hugues’ gaze was focused on the man to the east who had embarrassed him, not to the south—a view Gaston fully supported. To challenge the Greeks, even while they were distracted, would be to ruin France. He could imagine how his brother would yell, stamp and snort if he ever proposed such an idea—and the simple thought of Hugues bellowing threatened to give Gaston a headache. He glared at the Cardinal.

“Why does his Holiness not take this matter up with the ‘Defender of the Faith?’” Gaston raised an eyebrow sarcastically as he interrupted the Cardinal. It was a valid question, considering all the ‘title’ Pope Julius I had all too eagerly thrown Dietmar’s way once the usurper had taken the throne. Of course it had nothing to do with Dietmar surrounding the Papacy on four sides—Gaston had no doubt the Cardinal would deny any such allegation. Dietmar was by far the better general, Gaston was also keen to admit—why not ask him?

“Ah… how sharp the tongue,” von Falkenburg sighed. “The reports were accurate there too. His Holiness feels that King Dietmar’s hold on his lands is… too feeble,” von Falkenburg said, “There are far too many distractions at this time. However,” von Falkenburg smiled, a creaking thing as slow as he was old, “His Holiness feels that if the King of France were to commit, even in confidence, to regaining Rome for the Holy See and making peace with his Burgundian cousin, that the young Dietmar might see the light and join the cause as well.”

“Ah,” Gaston looked out the windows, towards the bulk of the Conciergerie, and beyond, the Cathedral of Notre Dame. So the Holy Father was playing a different game—if Hugues abandoned his claim to Burgundy, it would free Dietmar to ‘assist’ in taking Rome from the Greeks. He frowned—why should France give up her rightful claims? The archbishop turned his gaze back towards the Cardinal. “Why does his Holiness not approach Emperor Hesso?” It was his turn to smile. “Surely the Holy Roman Emperor would be willing to press his cousin for the rightful return of Rome?”

Von Falkenburg’s smile soured, and Gaston resisted the urge to let his own smile turn smug as he keenly reminded the Cardinal of how alone the Papacy was. Emperor Hermann had first proposed a “Treaty of Eternal Friendship” with his eastern counterpart in 1253, mostly to secure coin and mercenaries to prop up his throne against the ever rebellious German nobility. On Hermann’s death, his son Hesso had yet to renew the alliance—but neither was he a friend of the Holy Father. The Emperor retained several men in his court that were borderline heretics, and had deposed several archbishops appointed by Trier that he found ‘too rebellious.’

“I am afraid at this time that His Holiness does not consider Emperor Hesso a reliable friend of the Church,” von Falkenburg’s voice was icy.

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“Ah,” Gaston nodded quietly. Hesso would need to be dealt with—the German might have been an illiterate dolt, but he was an illiterate who had a realm that stretched from Hungary to Aachen. Even the stupidest bear could lumber into a village while the men were away—and if Dietmar were both south campaigning against the Greeks, even Hesso would see an opportunity. The only thing Gaston loathed more than the usurper next door was the German that lay beyond. He’d need assurances. “I am a man of the cloth, but my brother is a man of the world, Eminence,” Gaston picked his words carefully, “and he will likely want…”

“…to know what he will gain by lessening his claims to Burgundy and making peace with Dietmar?” von Falkenburg’s smile returned. “God, my child often has blessings planned for those who walk in His way. If France makes a truce with Burgundy now, His Holiness might be inclined to grant a dispensation for your brother to claim the Burgundian throne… after His Holiness has returned to Rome, of course. As for Hesso,” the Cardinal waved his hand dismissively, “His Holiness has ways of keeping the German out of the Rhine valley.”

“Ah,” Gaston replied—von Falkenburg was stalling. “I understand His Holiness’ predicament,” Gaston smiled darkly, “that he cannot make a pronouncement against the usurper when Dietmar surrounds him on all sides. My brother, however,” Gaston shrugged, “would be keen for some measure…”

“…of assurance? Of course your brother would be,” von Falkenburg said, his smile turning to a wry grin. “Such is the way men of world think, yet to be freed from the burdens of suspicion and mistrust.”

“Indeed,” Gaston said, biting his tongue at the Cardinal’s chide.

“Hmm,” von Falkenburg looked down for a second, before flashing his eyes back up at the Archbishop. “In fact, His Holiness would have another favor to ask of you. A small token, if you will.”

“A favor?” Gaston cut through the flowery words with a frown. How was another favor an assurance?

“A reward,” von Falkenburg’s smile grew broader as Gaston’s frown grew.

“Explain?” the younger cleric crossed his arms.

“As you are aware, King Duncan of Scotland’s soul was recently taken unto God,” the cardinal crossed himself half-heartedly. “He was responsible for the sacking of Hereford, as well as the theft of many lands in Wales and Northumbrie that belonged to your illustrious father. His Holiness,” the cardinal leaned forward, “is prepared to offer his full moral and spiritual support to your brother pressing a claim for the restoration of those lands lost.”

Gaston laughed. “There is no honey without bees. Where is the sting we shall find shortly?”

“The Bishop of Rothesay assures me that Duncan has left his Kingdom and his grandson in the care of a certain Lord Protector. I believe you have heard of the man—Antoine Comnens?” the cardinal’s eyebrow arched intriguingly.

Gaston blinked for a second, before it hit him.

“Duncan made a Komnenos the Lord Protector of Scotland?” the archbishop swallowed.

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“The family’s reputation, as well as Lord Antemios’ skills over the years, were enough to convince the late King that the Lord of Barra should be Steward and Lord Protector of the realm on his death,” von Falkenburg shook his head. “Unbelievably, the nobility of Scotland have backed this move to a man. Should he gain time to consolidate his position…” von Falkenburg’s voice trailed off.

Gaston swallowed. The Komnenids were no friends of the Capets—indeed, since the days of Drogo II the Great, the two families had been continual enemies. For a Komnenid, even a distant relation, to take the throne of Scotland.

“…we would have those damn Greeks to our north and south…” Gaston thought aloud. His eyes flecked up to the cardinal’s. “The bishop is sure of this information?”

“His family name is Dunkeld,” von Falkenburg nodded. “He was King Duncan’s cousin, as well as personal chaplain.” As Gaston’s face fell, the cardinal went on. “His Holiness is aware of the…predicament…such a situation would be for your brother and his family.” Von Falkenburg’s smile creaked wide again. “The Irish Lords have knelt, but as for the Prince of Wales…” The cardinal folded his hands, “the Archbishop of Gwynedd has told me they have said they will not serve under a Greek, no matter the circumstances.”

“A casus belli,” Gaston whispered.

The only thing that had held the hand of Gaston’s father was the Pope in Trier’s support of the Scottish King. A strike soon would mean this Komnenos would not have a chance to entrench himself in Edinburgh—dislodging him now would be far easier than later. Who knew if he could call on his cousins in Konstantinopolis?

They needed to strike. Now. Hard, and fast.

“Indeed. At a word from His Holiness,” von Falkenburg said, “the Archbishop can urge the Prince of Gwynedd to rise up and publicly call on your brother to restore the rule of House Capet to the region. Speed, Your Grace, would be of the essence. So, Your Grace,” the cardinal bowed slightly, “will your brother consider that a fair show of good faith?” He leaned closer, “Scotland for Rome?”

Gaston pursed his lips.

“Scotland for Rome and Burgundy,” the archbishop smiled thinly.

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Meanwhile...

Albrecht von Franken cleared his throat, and rocked on his heels. Servants scurried about, unmindful of the former Megoskyriomachos. Only a year before, Albrecht von Franken had been the most powerful man in Christendom. Today, he was an old man in fine clothes—as their gazes met him uncertainly, he wondered what they thought? Did they assume he was a merchant? Some diplomat on Konstantinopolis’ business?

As self-conscious fingers adjusted the clasp on his cloak and ran over his silken tunic, he hoped it was any of those, and not the truth. Hurried hands corrected errant strands of grey and white, as von Franken did his best to look prim, proper, and in charge…

…not an errant father, exiled to the court of his castaway son.

When the news of Nikaea arrived in Konstantinopolis, von Franken had been under house arrest in the Blacharnae, that complex of buildings that’d been his haunt for over fifty years. He’d seen hundreds of faces, many friend, many foe, walk through those walls. They’d heard him laugh at Mehtar Lainez’s suspicions about strange people on the steppe, they’d listened to him plot to desperately hold his best friend’s crown in place despite Thomas’ madness, they’d echoed with his joy at defeating Bardas and Gabriel, and were wet with his silent tears on the death of Nikephoros. As his aged eyes went over the walls around him, decorated with a mix of Italian, Greek, and Croat frescoes, he sighed.

He doubted the small palace called home by Gottfried, Prince of Istria, had heard anything nearly as momentous as any one of those events.

A servant hurriedly walked up directly before him, and executed a haphazard bow. Albrecht frowned, biting his tongue before angry words could come to his lips. He wasn’t in Konstantinopolis anymore—there was no use in expect proper court procedure here.

“His Highness will see you now,” the man said quickly and precisely. Albrecht gave him a quick glance over and swallowed slightly as his eyes went up, and towards the carved wooden doorway ahead of him.

“And so it began,” he whispered.

He quickly strode into the room, his footfalls seeming to echo across a much larger expanse. Truth be told, his son’s study was not large—not by the standards of the Blacharnae at least. A paltry library sat, jumbled and confused, in one corner. A few maps hung on sections of wall not covered by ancient Italian tapestries. As Albrecht took the room in, he noticed one obvious thing missing from the room…

…chairs.

Ah, so Gottfried was trying to make him uncomfortable. Well, he would soon find his old man could stand for hours just as easily as someone much younger!

Gottfried himself was standing at a windowsill, silently facing away, staring at something unknown. Albrecht craned slightly—he saw the harbor of Pola, filled with ships of all kinds. For several moments Albrecht stood warily, before finally clearing his throat to break the unease. Gottfried turned slowly—there was no smile on his face, no welcome.

Not that Albrecht expected any.

“Father,” Gottfried said with a quick nod. The voice held no warmth, but neither was it as frigid as Albrecht had expected.

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“Son,” Albecht bowed stiffly. He felt his back and hips creak at the movement. Age, it seemed, was finally catching up on him. Gottfried just as quickly turned his back to his father once more, and silence again reigned across the gulf between them. Somewhere outside, the cries of seagulls mixed with the calls of merchants in the busy streets below. As the distant noise hung between them like a curtain, Albrecht started to fidget. After a few minutes, he couldn’t take any more.

“I…” Albrecht stammered, “You have done well here,” he said slowly, awkwardly, cursing his tongue and its inability to say what he wanted said. Slowly, Gottfried turned only his head around.

“Thank you, father,” he said just as slowly, voice an empty void. He sighed. “Venice has not recovered as fast as some would think, and I sensed an opportunity.” He looked back out the window. “Tergeste is growing as well. Both cities ‘coin and tolls go directly into my coffers. The lords of the hinterland,” Gottfried shook his head slowly, a thin daggerlike smile on his lips, “they think me a great boon and a fool for charging them so low a scutage, not realizing...” he pointed at the harbor.

As the unexpected conversation went on, Albrecht’s hopes soared. Perhaps his son would forgive? He was talking! Maybe warmth would enter his voice? Maybe he’d accept his father’s arrival? Maybe…

“…not need them,” Gottfried finished. For an awkward moment, the two looked at each other, before Gottfried rocked on his heels, and went back to staring out at the harbor. Once again, the cries of birds and men draped themselves into the gulf between father and son.

“They say he won at Nikaea,” Gottfried said quietly a minute later. Albrecht winced. He’d hoped their conversation could be civil—Gottfriend bringing up Andronikos this early on...

“Yes, they do,” von Franken said gingerly, his voice wretched with age and indecision. All those plans on how to talk to his son were long gone…

“And that Gabriel then retreated, rather than face him in winter,” Gottfried added, before give a sarcastic huff. “Or so they say.”

“That is what they say,” Albrecht replied quietly.

“To your credit, you taught him well,” Gottfried said stiffly, still looking away.

“I…” Albrecht paused, before clasping his hands in front of himself and sighing, “I tried.”

“And you…” Gottfried started to say sharply, before his speech halted, uncertain and confused.

“I…well…” Albrecht stammered, before laughing nervously. He winced again—the noise made him sound like a baboon. “Enough about him, yes?” von Franken said nervously.

“Yes,” he barely heard his son say. Albrecht’s eyes went to Gottfried’s hand as the Prince of Istria’s fingers tapped a nervous drumbeat on the windowsill. The noise thankfully drowned out the chorus of outside noise that had stalked their conversation so far. “What are you thinking, Father?” he asked, as those fingers came to a sudden stop.

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“I…” Albrecht started to say.

“Surprised at my competence?” Gottfried turned and openly glared. When Albrecht said nothing—what could he say?—Gottfried snorted. “I’m alive still, aren’t I? Despite the best the Germans could do, I’m still alive!” he pointed angrily at his chest.

Despite the best YOU could do, Albrecht heard the unspoken addition to his son’s sentence.

“They’ve sent assassins no less than five times,” Gottfried’s finger pointed angrily towards the hallway behind Albrecht. “Five times! They nearly killed your grandson twice! They…” his snarling came to a halt. Silence. Cries and calls from the outside as Gottfried turned his back to his father yet again. “Well, you shall be seeing much of my competence, I suppose,” Gottfried sighed, that anger and resentment settling once more just below the surface. “I suppose I do owe you thanks, Father,” he added, voice dripping with sarcasm, “for what you did to me those years ago. You taught me I needed patience.” He turned back to Albrecht and smiled—the grin was as thin and transparent as an icicle. “I was too ambitious, too greedy then, and I was burned by my own flames. But here,” he gestured towards the growing town and its new stone walls, “I’ve learned patience, and cunning.”

“So you haven’t abandoned that madcap idea?” Albrecht finally spoke, more venom in his voice than he intended. Was Gottfried simply trying to lord over him, so he could follow his foolish ideas?

“No,” Gottfried’s smile disappeared. “We von Frankens were meant to be more than Roman servants. You were, and I am now, but one day we shall be free.” His eyes looked back out over the water. “In my son’s time. Or mayhaps his son. But the von Frankens shall return to something greater than mere ‘Princes’ and ‘Regents.’ And this,” he gestured to the busy harbor of Pola, “will be the base we build from…”

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“You speak of competence, boy,” Albrecht hissed, the anger finally overcoming him. Stupid, idiotic Gottfried still didn’t understand! He’d been so foolish as to commit treason then, what lunacy would he do next?! “Yet you still haven’t abandoned the idiocy, the lunacy that held you in Konstantinopolis?! Do you think the Arpads will let you walk into Germany and casually take their crown, or the Komnenids leisurely let you waltz out of their empire?! Do you…”

“Do you think your golden empire will last forever?” Gottfried asked, voice venomously quiet.

“The Roman Empire has stood for…”

“Father, think on it!” Gottfried snarled. “Yes, your ‘golden child’ who so eagerly abandoned you has the throne in Konstantinopolis, but he is still a sixteen year old boy! He defeated Gabriel, but can he hold the army in place?”

“He can squash you like a bug!” Albrecht started to yell. “If you think he’ll care about us versus the Arpads…”

“Can he keep the Church, the dynatoi, the people?” Gottfried roared over his father, stalking over until he was inches from Albrecht’s face. “And Romanion’s neighbors will come circling too—the Germans, the French! How do you think he’ll fare against all of these enemies, especially if they all are moving at the same time?!” Young eyes stared at old for a moment, before Gottfried turned and spat on the floor. “You stupid old man! You’re too blind to see anything!”

“All I see is cocksure youngster who thinks he can take on the entire world!” Albrecht found himself roaring back.

“No!” Gottfried shouted back, “That this empire you’ve served, you’ve made, you’ve shackled together through your blood, your sweat, your tears…” he growled, “it is doomed to fall! It is only held together by brilliant men, and one day, someone will fail. And when they do, Romanion will fall! Your work, your sweat, will be for nothing!” Brown eyes met brown, before Gottfried spun around and stalked back towards the window.

“One day there will be no one to catch the empire when it stumbles,” he sighed, quieter. “And when that day comes, we are well placed here. I, or my children, or their children, will write our own story, and it will start here, in Istria, not in Konstantinopolis!” He looked back at his father, eyes angry and weary at once. “Your apartments are in the East tower,” Gottfried said quietly. “Tell Kaloyan and Stepjan of your needs, and they will see to it.” He turned momentarily and waved his hand.

“You may go.”

Albrecht blinked, rooted in a moment of confusion. It took his son waving yet again for him to realize he was being ordered to depart. Sharp words came to his mouth—a tongue lashing about respect, before a quiet, mournful voice reminded Albrecht of his new circumstances. He was his son’s guest, without rank, without title, without position. So slowly, stiffly, the man simply known as Albrecht von Franken bowed, turned, and left the room as precisely as protocol would allow. There were parts of Konstantinopolis he would keep with him all his life—even if its last few days were to be spent here, in the backwaters of the Empire…

==========*=========​

Sorry but the “Meeting of Lions” update got pushed back a week, because I realized I needed to sneak these two vignettes in at this point. So the Papacy wants to move back to Rome, and is trying to cobble together some sort of peace in the West to focus the attention of the Western kings. Meanwhile, Albrecht has been exiled to Istria to join his son…
 
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I find myself more worried about Scotland than about Rome. The idea of a celtic Kingdom of Ireland and Scotland is soo cool! It's like Vikings mixed with Celtic spirit and everything. I really like them.


And Rome will probably fall. Persia won't. Gabriel will get minor gains and leave while Rome crumbles. Or he'll re-create the Seleucid empire and watch as the Roman Empire crumbles.

Anyways, I'm rooting for Scotland and Gabriel.
 
Poor England, reduced to a plaything between Frenchmen and heathen Celts. Please have the Emperor restore the natural order of things on the British isles. Britain must rule!!! I do like the Burgundian kingdom, give opportunities for a United Netherlands centuries earlier :D.

I am a bit surprised Andi simply exiles Albrecht. Even though he's an old man, not either using or executing him seems out of character.
 
A Scottish kingdom with a Roman ruler?! Craziness factor is really high for that one.
 
And in Scottland and Germany, not to forget the Mongols? :p
the clouds gather, some AI is enough foolish to get into a war with you sooner or later. :D
And Albrecht's wife?
 
Ah, so happy to hear news of Andy Comyn!

Also, has Gottfried developed a sense of perpective? :eek:
 
Go Scotland!

I'm sure Gottfried does not know everything, though. Everyone moving at once seems like a gross oversimplification.